Friction. Ignition. Conflagration.

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The Tinker

I am a broken tinker crying inside,tending to other people’s woundsand letting mine open wide.I cram my woes into crowded moundsthen I sit on top of them, guilty and tired.I feed upon the clamor of the sick,and I thrive by making a living out of it.My shoulders are for tears and for generous treatsmy words are reserved for those in need.I spend my days fixing people up real good in no time,willing them to bellow their suppressed sighs. And though I might seem incontestable and bright,good god, I’ve lost all my faith I once had inside.

Yet, I still dream about the day when everything turns around,When somebody will hear the quiet sound of my shouts,someone to do me the things I want be done for mesomeone to whisper me what I used to say for people’s bliss.And maybe it’s sad but it’s comforting to admit-that I only stay alive just to wait for this to happen to me.In the meantime, I walk as a tinker with a dying mind,I feel as free as a man damned by his own kind.When i say ‘it’s fine, you’ll get better you’ll see’ what I really want to say is thatI just pray you don’t end up like me.